


Adventures in Food Shopping

by osaraba



Category: due South
Genre: Challenge: c6d Porn Tag, Established Relationship, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-30
Updated: 2010-04-30
Packaged: 2017-10-19 21:51:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/205595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osaraba/pseuds/osaraba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man should not be aroused by a box of pasta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Adventures in Food Shopping

"Fraser, we don't have to do this. I _know_ how to feed myself. I've been doing it for a long time now."

Fraser made a sound that could have been called a polite sort of snort. "That's arguable; you had Stella, after all. I'm not convinced that you ate anything but pizza and diner food when you were on your own." He turned the shopping cart down the next aisle. "Look, Ray. It's the pasta aisle – you can make yourself some spaghetti."

"I don't _want_ spaghetti!"

Several pairs of eyes looked in their direction with unabashed curiosity, amusement, and irritation. Ray lowered his voice, "Christ, I feel like a five-year old. You make me feel like a five-year old, Fraser."

It's not that Fraser thought Ray couldn't take care of himself. Of course he could; Ray was a competent, independent adult. With a weakness for pizza. Really he didn't mean to pick on Ray or his eating habits, juvenile though they might be, but was it too much to expect—  
"Fraser, you’re thinking way too hard about this. You're only going to be gone for a week. Even if I did eat pizza for a week -- and I'm in no way or shape or form saying that I’m gonna do that – but if I _did_... it's only a _week_!"

Fraser put on his best 'I'm only slightly disappointed' look. "Ray-- of course you wouldn't seriously damage your health with a week of poor eating habits, but neither of us is quite so young anymore and—"

"Jesus fucking christ, _okay_ , give me that. No, just the one box. Just one."

Fraser casually put the box of spaghetti in Ray's outstretched hand and watched as it was tossed into the cart with a little more force than was strictly necessary. He chose to place the accompanying jar of sauce in the cart himself.

"There are children present, Ray."

"So what, do they want some pasta too?"

******

A man should not be aroused by a box of pasta.

Well, several boxes of pasta, but that wasn’t really the point.

Fraser pressed his hand over his shorts, trying futilely to calm what really was a raging erection. He felt he ought to be embarrassed by it, but of course, no one was around to see it. Unfortunately, neither was the person he would have liked to do something about the problem.

Ray wasn’t home yet, and wasn’t expected to be for several hours. It was unfortunate that Fraser’s flight back to Chicago had landed midday, and with Ray being unable to extract himself from certain obligations. (“Damn, I have court that day, Fraser. And I can’t get out of it. And it’s with Judge Takes-Five-Hours-To-Deliberate, so I might not even be home at the regular time.”)

And it really was unfortunate because Fraser was rather more excited to see Ray (naked) than one week away at a conference should be able to justify. And he had thought – logically – that taking the first available flight into Chicago would be the best thing to do to alleviate the problem. But he was home now, and he supposed that being in a mild state of arousal at home was preferable to being in such a state in a Canadian airport waiting for his flight.

He still had several hours left to kill. Fraser would happily have burned off some of the extra energy by taking Diefenbaker for a run in the park, but His Majesty was off in a corner, pouting about Fraser not bringing him back a souvenir. (“Diefenbaker, you’re being ridiculous, what would you have done with a keychain of the CN Tower? No, I’m not going to go out and get donuts to make it up to you.”)

So instead of doing those things that might have relieved his arousal, he walked around the apartment, stripped down to just his boxers in the heat of the late afternoon (and the broken air conditioner that Ray kept saying he was going to fix himself), with beads of sweat dotting his overheated skin, and thought about making something for dinner.

So he looked in the pantry.

And found several boxes of pasta.

Which, really, shouldn’t be so exciting that Fraser couldn’t resist pressing on himself through the shorts. Of course, that didn’t help the situation any, and he only became harder, and fuller, and soon enough the waistband was shoved down and his hand was full of his own heated skin, pulsing and becoming slick from pre-come as he stroked himself.

His other arm was braced against the pantry door and he pressed his shut eyes against his forearm as he found a rhythm that made his breath stutter and quicken. With his eyes closed he imagined that it was Ray, standing behind him, skin to skin, with his hand on Fraser’s cock. At the mental image, Fraser shifted his head and, eyes still shut tight, bit down on the back of his hand. The internal pressure built higher and he was shaking, making the pantry door rattle on its hinges.

Ray’s hand would be right _there_ , stroking and finding just the right rhythm, twisting up and over the head, making Fraser twitch in pleasure. But then slowing and squeezing to cool things down a bit, hold off the inevitable end. Drops of sweat rolled down Fraser’s back but that was really Ray’s tongue chasing droplets of water from the shower, right down to the crack of his ass, and then between them.

Fraser groaned and squeezed tight, trying to hold it in, trying to hold back. But his hips weren’t listening to his brain and without Ray there to hold him down he thrust forward into his own hand, panting. “Ray.” Groaning. “Where the hell are you?”

“Jesus, Fraser!”

Fraser’s eyes snapped open, his head whipped around toward the sound of Ray’s voice. Oddly, he receded somewhat from the brink as all the blood in his penis rushed into his face and neck and arms, flushing in embarrassment. It’s a wonder he didn’t faint right then with all the blood rushing around because his embarrassment didn’t last more than a few seconds.

Ray was rushing over, as quickly as if he’d found Fraser lying on the floor, shot. But he was taking off his jacket, pulling off his tie (which is what made the blood rush back down), kicking off his shoes and pulling his pants down (had he been somewhat more coherent, he might have noticed that the button and zipper had already been opened). Fraser thought Ray must have more than two sets of hands to be able to accomplish it all, but somehow it worked. He even had the presence of mind to fumble in one of the kitchen drawers for the extra bottle of lube, slicking up his own cock and then pulling Fraser’s shorts all the way down.

Which was more than Fraser could’ve done at this particular moment.

When Fraser felt Ray’s slick fingers against his hole, he pushed back on them, wanting this to be done quickly, wanting, finally, to feel—

“Please, Ray, hurry.” Fraser panted, his voice strained. “Need you to—”

“Yeah, Fraser, me too.”

And Ray was pushing in slowly and Fraser could feel heaviness and the heat of his arousal. Fraser could hear him, hissing out a breath. And when Ray began to move Fraser could feel the sensation of fullness, so completely—

And though the angle wasn’t quite right to hit the prostate—

Fraser barely stroked himself once before he came. The pleasure seemed to stretch out, tingling into his fingers and toes and he was shaking, he could feel the shaking, he could feel the way Ray pressed him up against the pantry door (which may or may not have had to be re-hung on its hinges later that week), holding him up and pounding into him.

And it was Ray’s teeth, biting down hard on the back of his shoulder; Ray’s tongue that soothed the bite and mouthed along the planes of his back; Ray’s hands that gripped his hips tightly as he fucked him; Ray’s voice that called out his name as he succumbed to his own end.

And then they were both panting on the kitchen floor, backs growing cold against the linoleum floor.

“Would you like to tell me why you were you fucking the pantry?”

“I wasn’t fucking the pantry, Ray.”

Ray snorted. “It sure looked like it from this angle.”

Fraser flushed again. He supposed it would have looked like that. He peeked over at Ray and caught the amusement on his face. “I—well, I suppose it must have looked like that. But it wasn’t the pantry. It was really the pasta.”

“Of course it wasn’t the—the— what? The pasta?” Fraser had the pleasure of seeing the amusement turn into a glare. “What, do I gotta be worried now, that you’re going to spend all your money buying boxes of pasta? Haunting supermarkets like a crazy man – more crazy than usual for you, I mean – and like, humping the spaghetti aisle?”

“Well if I do, Ray, it would be all your fault.” Fraser ignored his sputtering. “You restocked the pasta we bought last week before I left.”


End file.
